Batman: Arkham Insanity
by Red'sRevenge
Summary: Annabeth Crane was the daughter born in fear and raised in it. Trained mentally using the very fear toxin Scarecrow uses on his victims and mastering her own demons, she and Scarecrow have their hearts set on taking Arkham City and Gotham. But her good fights against her evil, and one man could bring her freedom, even love. POST Arkham City and the events of Harley Quinn's Revenge
1. Birth of Phobia

**This may or may not be continued, it all depends on the timing, but here is the Batma****n fanfiction that's been knocking around in my head. This is just the preface and it's a shot in the dark-no pun intended- and this story is set right after the events of Arkham City and the Harley Quinn's Revenge DLC. **

**I hope y'all enjoy! **

**Yours, **

**Double H19**

…**.**

Batman: Arkham Insanity

_I was in the middle of a field of low grass, no landmarks or the skyscrapers of Gotham City to guide me. I was lost, so lost. I could hear his laughter, the only sound of the wide-awake laughter, apart from the awfully, wretched thunder. My nerves screamed to scream, shouted to shout, and cowered to cower. I wanted to give in, but that__'__s not what this was for, was it? _

Out of anything and everything to be afraid of, I am only terrified of one thing: thunderstorms. When lightning strikes, I used to cringe and curl up in a corner, and when I was a baby, I would cry and cry nonstop because I couldn't get away.

_He could sense my fear, always could. He could see right through me, like I was made of glass and the terror inside me lit up like the Fourth of July, shining right out. I sat, though my eyes betrayed the calmness I was supposed to demonstrate. They kept darting to the black-as-pitch clouds, and to the flashes of lightning. I could see each flash, and seconds later a clap of thunder would nearly deafen me. _

_The laughter again, high and shrill. _

"_HAHAHAHAHAAA!__"_

Growing up in the Bowery, the worst neighborhood of Gotham City, I had plenty to fear. To the north was Crime Alley, where crime riddled the nooks and crannies of the asphalt and blood was painted daily upon the walls. Not only that, I was a girl to a single father that worked late at Arkham Asylum throughout the week, I walked to school alone, and I didn't have any friends to walk home with afterwards. And it didn't take a genius to figure out what the girls on the corners were doing there. I didn't have to guess why some lived in cardboard boxes, and I was kind enough to give them the spare change I had, or old newspapers and a match for their garbage fires to keep warm.

_I fought, fought to keep still as the hail beat down on me. It all seemed so real, the impact like a baseball as each one hit. I could__'__ve sworn it would bruise. But I__'__ve been exposed to these nightmares so much, I knew it wasn__'__t real. It wasn__'__t...And then the black clouds began to twist and turn._

I could've been hurt, badly, but wasn't. When I was fourteen years old, my father started working longer nights, not coming home until the ungodly hours of the early morning. He started carrying masks in his briefcases, things he would try-unsuccessfully-to hide from me.

He was a good father, please don't misunderstand. Whenever the bad weather rolled around and I would be scared out of my wits when the thunder arrived, he could sense the fear rolling from me in tides. My father would stand in the corner at first, not saying a thing. The light that would flash would illuminate his eyes, almost like spotlights, and his blue eyes, like the ocean, would stare straight at me. I wondered how he kept from blinking that long. And then he would come up to me, sit cross-legged on the floor with his hands in his lap. He would say, "Shhh, there is nothing to fear, my Annabeth. Only tell me what you feel."

_A tornado. I could hear its distinct roaring, like a locomotive and I__'__m tied down on the tracks. And as I looked down, I saw that I really was, as if my thoughts had conjured ropes tied to the ground. I couldn__'__t move, at least I thought I couldn__'__t. I desperately looked around for something that could free me, something that could cut through these ropes. I looked out to the field, and noticed a scarecrow. Tied to a post. Wait, no? The tornado__'__s roars got louder and louder, until it was not even a football field away from me. As the debris clouded my vision, the floodgates on my mind were broken down and fresh terror fell away. But I remembered the scarecrow, it seemed to stand up, sprint to me-holding out its hand for me, I could grab it-_

He would sit there, and whisper comforting words in that delicate voice of his. Eventually, I would slowly hold onto his arm and cry into his bicep. I could feel the vibrations of him chuckling, as if my fear was an idle joke I'd made over dinner.

But that was before I realized that his hands weren't empty in his lap.

Before I saw noticed that what he was holding was a clipboard and a pen.

Before I realized the masks in his briefcase were old and raggedy.

Before he injected me with the toxin for the first time a year after I noticed the masks.

Before he became...the..._"__SCARECROW!__"_

I screamed the name again, regaining my grip on reality and my grip on my chair, my nails digging into the leather. I was panting, breaths sucked in and out in hisses between my teeth. I released my hand, lifting it to cover my cough. I never liked the dry throat I always got after being injected with toxin. The room I did my morning 'check-ups' in was dark, _just _dark enough to conceal his body but not two round orbs that were the eyes of my father's mask.

"You're ready, my daughter," His voice, warped by the mask, was laden with genuine pride.

Scarecrow stepped out from the shadows, full costume complete with that damned clipboard in his hands. Then he tucked the clipboard under his armpit, gently and carefully removing the mask from his face. Loose hair tumbled from it, and he raked a hand through the locks, the color of wet brown leather. His actual face seemed so...odd with the costume. Like the part that made him human was the part that was wrong instead of his mask. Then he spoke. "You've completed all of your mental trials and our hulking associate has cleared you for your physical training. You're ready, my daughter."

He walked forward, and my eyes followed him warily; I watched him as he put the clipboard down on a counter beside my chair. My father reached up to my face, slipping a syringe-tipped finger of his gloves under my chin. "We have prepared, you and I. All these years. What happened at the Asylum was a setback, and now the Joker is presumed dead. This is our chance..." With his free hand, he lowered the Scarecrow's true face onto his head. His words were twisted again by the mask. "Are you ready to rule by my side? As father and daughter, masters of Arkham! Masters of Gotham!"

"Yes, I am ready," I found myself saying, my own madness inside me widening my eyes and the corners of my lips pulled back into my own euphoric laughter, maniacal as my father's. I stood from the chair, and as I did, my father reached for something tucked away in a cupboard in the room.

It was a box, and with one syringed finger from his glove, he cut the tape. The box had some weight to it, as I saw the muscles in his arms flex as he held it. He handed it to me, and I too felt its heaviness. "The one Bane had you practice with was just that, practice. With the money I accumulated from the goods you stole from Penguin's Iceberg Lounge, I bought this for you. I do wish you to use it tonight."

Thoroughly intrigued, I set the box on the seat of my chair and tore it open. My eyes smoldered at what was inside. Chains. Heavy enough to pack a punch when thrown, but light enough to carry wrapped over my shoulder and around my torso.

"And this."

Scarecrow handed me a second box, but this one was sealed by metal clasps at the top, made of more leather. I undid the clasps, and pulled them back. I smiled as I reached in with both hands and rose the mask out of the box. Or is it a helmet? It looked like a motorcycle helmet, but the front was shaped like the Scarecrow mask's mouth, all black. Stark sleekness on the sides, and it was smooth as I ran my hands over it.

"I wish you to wear this as well when we storm the Sionis Steel Mill. Black Mask will have mercenaries in there, now that that _unstable_ woman Quinn was pinned down and I want my little girl to be safe, eh?" He noticed my staring at him. "Try it on, Annabeth."

Masks, never thought I'd live to see myself wear one. But I didn't see Scarecrow or any of this coming either. I did as he asked.

"Oooh, fits like a glove." Scarecrow cooed, "What shall you call yourself, my Annabeth?"

* * *

This is the story of Annabeth Crane, the young woman born in fear and raised with it.

She knows fear as well as her father, the Scarecrow does, if not more.

Scarecrow is done waiting, and now he's turned his sights not only on Arkham City, but to Gotham.

His daughter, his new attack dog, is more than happy to help her father.

But what is the hesitation that Annabeth feels so strongly? Is it the good inside her? Or something deeper?

The daughter of Scarecrow and the first ward of the Batman.

This is the story of Annabeth Crane, the woman born in fear and raised with it is now a criminal.

Determined to fulfill her father's high expectations for her, Annabeth has taken fear to heart and given herself the name which is described as an inescapable terror one feels.

"The Scarecrow shall no longer be the _only _thing that keeps you up at night, Sionis.

I am terror.

I am the dark corner where your most vulnerable self resides.

I am your screaming nightmare.

I am...Phobia."


	2. Where the Bridges Burn

**Here we go…**

* * *

Harley's nail made a small scratching noise as it carved another marker into the wall of her cell. There were forty-nine more, and this marked fifty. She sniffled, her nose red and eyes puffy from crying. Fifty days without Joker, her puddin'. Her inky black hair, once blonde, was up in her pigtails and it swished about her face as she looked from the wall of marks to her door. How could they do this to her?  
She _knew _her Joker was only a few floors below, in the morgue. It was driving her crazy, knowing that the man she always waited to save her in these cells any other time…was dead. In a way, Harley was saved from her own guilt by thinking of how J would break her out and sweep her off her feet. _Oh Mistah Jay…is this all a joke? Is life playin' with me? _

She flicked the leftover dust from the wall from her nail, and pressed her hand tentatively against her stomach, already beginning to show. Harley was sick this morning, the first of many barfing up her lungs but she didn't care. This was the last bit of happiness in her life, the last thing that could make her smile. She was having his child, and it tied her to him indefinitely. Harley realized in that little moment that she was humming that lullaby again, and a sweet look curled about her face, using her free hand to wipe the newest of tears. _I hope the baby's got his smile_.

"Knock knock, Quinn."

Harley's smile faded instantly, and a scowl replaced it, yelling at the guard. "Whaddoyou want?! I don't wanna see anybody!"

"There's someone here who's pretty adamant to see you."  
She was silent for a moment, biting her lip so hard she swore she could taste that new penny flavor of blood in her mouth. That _someone_ could've been Joker, but she forced herself to think. If Joker was alive, he'd be blasting through the wall, not scheduling a visit to her jail cell. Besides, would Joker really go near a GCPD building unarmed and outnumbered?

"Fine, dumbass. Just keep your hands to yourself. Got that?"

Harley stood up carefully, a hand on her stomach as the guards opened her door. She knew the routine, no sudden movements and no suspicious actions. No talking, it wouldn't help her. The guard took her elbow anyway, and she wanted to bite him, but she repressed the urge as he led her down the hallway. She passed by cells, but all she could see of the insides of them were through the tiny windows near the top. Harley kept her eyes facing forwards.

They rounded a corner, and then Harley was led through a door into the visiting area. Two guards on both sides of the glass staring at her as she moved to sit, crossing her legs. A little circular speaker was inset into the glass, and as the door on the other side buzzed, she could hear it through the speaker.

And then all fell. A can of smoke was thrown into the room, the guards turned to fire but the smoke engulfed the room in mere seconds, Harley sucked in a squealing gasp before a swift, almost surgical blow struck the back of her head.

She fell into darkness clutching onto her fear.

* * *

Harley woke to someone tapping her cheek with their hand, and she swatted it away angrily. _No one_ was to touch her, ever. She was still in her jailbird uniform, and she was in a car seat, a limo maybe? She didn't know until she opened her eyes and saw the kind of company she was in. _Yep, definitely the limo-ridin' type_.

She straightened up in her seat, a pounding headache protesting her movements, and stared into the shadows on the other end of the car, two of those ninjas she kept seeing around Arkham City were on either side of two hooded figures in emerald green cloaks. The cloaks had ancient runes embroidered on them and it looked to be old. Really, really old. One was significantly taller than the other.

"The only reason I didn't drug you is because you were with child," Came a female voice from under the hood of the taller cloak, "And I, being a mother myself, would never wish to harm a child."

Harley squinted, trying to peer under the hood of the cloaks. She didn't trust this chick nor did she believe her. "Oh yeah? So what's the gag, huh? Who're you and why'd you spring me?"

Even in the dim lighting in the limo, when the taller figure let down the hood, Harley still widened her eyes and gaped before shock fell through to anger. "You bitch-"  
She tried to surge forward, but a word in a foreign language sent the two ninjas to hold her back, sitting on Harley's side with their toned arms around both of hers. Harley spat at the other woman, "You tied me to a pipe and stole the cure for B-Man! Why aren't you dead?! Mistah Jay…shot you in the back. Like that Batgirl! Why _aren't you dead?!" _

Talia al Ghul leaned into the light, her sandy brown hair tied back firmly in a ponytail and away from her statuesque face. "My father had been alive for six-hundred years and you wonder why I, his daughter, am not dead? I was revived by the same elixir that replenished him, but where it turned him insane from continued use, it hardened me the first time. I am not longer inhibited by…past distractions. I am focused, I am in command, I am Talia al Ghul, and you are welcome."

"I don't remember thankin' ya," Harley shot back sharply, crossing her arms like a child being put on time out. "But you never answered my question: why'd you spring me from jail, huh?"

"I believed we could," Talia's lips twisted thoughtfully, searching for the appropriate word, "…help one another. You wanted out of jail, yes?"

Harley nodded, but her glare still held. The daughter of the Demon smiled, but it was not a friendly smile or one someone might give to spite someone. It was just a smile, but it was unreadable, too. "And so I sprang you. I will help you if you are willing to aide me with something."

"And what's that?" Harley asked, tapping her foot on the floor of the passenger compartment of the limo. She still didn't like this Talia, even warned J about taking her hostage, but she did believe in doing something for someone because they did something for you.

"I want to join forces to place a firm foothold in Arkham City," Talia responded automatically, as if she'd practiced, really thought about it. "And later Gotham. You see, Harley Quinn, old players are coming back into the big leagues, as you Americans say. And at their spear-point is Scarecrow."  
Harley let out a peal of high-pitched laughter, and as she laughed like the Clown Princ_ess_ of Crime she was. Talia raised a sleek eyebrow, and she asked, "What is funny?"  
"Jonny Crane?! You kiddin' me?" Harley only laughed harder, "Look we exchanged notes back at the Asylum, and lemme tell ya, he ain't one to lead anybody anywhere!"  
"His daughter could probably be the cause for his sudden change in position." Talia informed casually, as if it were common knowledge. Harley's giggles grew more enthusiastic, but eventually died down when she realized that the other woman was serious.

"Wha?" Harley began uneasily, "Oh my…who is this chick?"  
"Apart from being his daughter, I know that she is his main enforcer and has hit the Sionis steel mill," Harley's face reddened in anger, and Talia quickly added, "Yes, Black Mask has taken up the place now that your followers have been cleared out…that, Penguin's old base that was Two-Face's property for a long while, and various strongholds around Arkham City," Talia explained, "I do know her name, or at least what she calls herself. Her name is Phobia, and by the way she's been trained, I'd say Bane is in league with Scarecrow."

"Bane? Thought he was busted by Bat-Brain!" Harley said, and Talia looked mildly surprised.

"Hmm, you're more connected than I thought," Talia noted, before continuing, "But no, he was. Scarecrow and his daughter struck a deal with him, apparently he trained Phobia in exchange for Scarecrow to recreate the Titan formula for Bane to use. Scarecrow had extensive research on the Titan formula when Joker captured Dr. Young in secret."

"Oh wow…" Harley was at a loss for words, but then her baby blue eyes focused on Talia again. "Look, lady. I trust Ivy and Selina-well _sometimes_ Selina, but you…I don't know. I don't trust you."

Talia nodded, smiling that very untrustable smile once more. "I believe a bond forged on mistrust can be just as profitable as one forged on the reverse. I want to own Gotham before I destroy it, and with you, I can accomplish my father's crusade. You and Joker only wanted to destroy and torment Batman. With me, you can do that."

Harley was pensive for a moment, her childlike mouth slipping into a frown. Her black pigtails flopped around her face as she shook her head. She looked up at Talia, trying to guess what she saw there. Deceit or sincerity? Sympathy or pity? What ulterior motive could this chick have?

Batman _had_ taken away Joker from her. It was his fault. Always was, still is. Never changes, never stops. He is the real evil man here. Not Joker, never Joker. But even though she wanted to keep her baby safe from Batman…

No, that wasn't all. Harley Quinn wanted something more.

"There is something else I want right now."

"Name it," Talia said simply.

Harley stared at Talia, raw desperation and true grief written across her face.

"I want you to use whatever you've got to bring Mister J back."

Talia spread that smile one last time.

* * *

Meanwhile…

When a tragedy happened, Bruce Wayne knew too well, that there were good days and bad days. With him, nearly every day was like all of his tragedies had happened again. He sat in his cave, in his chair before the famous BatComputer, and with his head in his hands, he would not move. All that signaled to Alfred that he was alive was his steady breathing and a mumbled 'thank you' when the elder butler came to bring his tea and food for meals. When he wasn't out roaming the rooftops and trying to get a lock on Hush's location, he was in the BatCave, thinking about how it happened and why.

Talia, the only woman he had ever truly loved. They shared everything, including their names and bodies. She was the only one who knew outside the Family. They had circled each other for years, hooking up now and then-most recently in Metropolis a month before, but now…now she had slipped right through his fingers into nothingness. Like he had been trying to catch smoke. And failed.

And…and the Joker. So many people the Joker had been. He'd been the man who crippled Barbara, the reason she was in a wheelchair now. He'd been the man who killed his second Robin, Jason Todd. Bruce considered his failure with Jason to be one of his greatest. The reason Jason's old costume was on display as tribute in the cave not fifteen feet behind where Bruce sat now….and now…Joker had killed Talia.

The Joker had been Batman's antithesis, and yet…the Joker and the Batman needed each other like neither could explain. Bruce has studied this a million times since Joker's death, and now…he was feeling the affects of the aftermath. The Joker had kept him sharp; he was the one man Bruce couldn't figure out and yet understood perfectly. Expect the unexpected or die, that was what the Joker stood for. That was what Joker knew to be true, and that's why he laughs. There was a cosmic balance. Something bad happens so something good can, it was the 'joke' of life. Maybe that was why Joker lived in Gotham, the city known for its hardship. He wanted to be the good thing that happened, he wanted to put a smile on their faces whether they wanted to or not. And he would do whatever it took. Joker would be angry they didn't see it the way he did, and he would do his terrible things with an almost inhuman disregard for human life. All because Gotham does not see how the Joker views the world. But Batman did. Batman could anticipate and play through his long jokes. The Joker, Bruce knew, regarded Batman as almost a friend.

Bruce could see him so clearly now that he was dead, and that was the cruelty, he thought.

_Death knocks us in the head to clear us, and then we can look through the lens it leaves behind. Like a film, or a filter…to keep out what is already known, and only letting what is real fall through the holes._

Although Joker had caused personal and impersonal deaths that forever wore Bruce down, he would still regret and remorse. Because it was almost a reflex to him now.

The Joker wasn't Scarecrow, wasn't Bane, wasn't Penguin, Two-Face, Quinn or Hush. None of them were what the Joker was.

And _that _is why Bruce regrets for the Joker indirectly taking his own life.

Because in some small way, he was the only one who knew the Joker.

Disrupting his thoughts only minutely was the sound of footsteps. It wasn't Alfred's quiet and calm walk, it was someone else, but not unfamiliar. It had a rhythmic gait, and Bruce already knew who it was.  
"Bruce."

Grumbling, Bruce raised his head to 'greet' his visitor with a silent, steely gaze. His eyes were met with the young man of dark hair and robin's egg blue eyes. Dick Grayson, Nightwing. He wasn't in costume, but rather a light blue track jacket over a black t-shirt and jeans.

Dick's face was apologetic, his voice holding a note of real sympathy and holding up his hands like he would to a police officer. "Sorry for bothering you, but I thought you'd like to know…Harley Quinn has just been busted out of jail."

"First the temporary holding facility, and now again…" Bruce started hoarsely; hardly talking for days had done that to his voice. "Do we know who did it?"

"I have an idea, but here's the thing," Dick paused, taking a breath before he elaborated, "I followed the limo she was carried in, and it didn't go to Gotham, it went to Bludhaven."

"So what're we waiting-"

"No, Bruce," Dick interjected firmly, the usually playful tint to his eyes changed to blue ice. "Bludhaven is my responsibility and you've got plenty to worry about in Gotham. You focus on Hush, let me worry about Harley Quinn."

There was a tense silence; it was familiar to the both of them, though they won't admit it. Ever since Dick walked out, leaving his Robin costume on the BatComputer's chair, the two men have never seen a recovery from that night and although Alfred says otherwise, they don't believe they ever will. They would both be lying if they said that the tension wasn't a result.

"Fine." Bruce said finally, sighing and closing his eyes for a moment. He interrogated, "Does Barbara know yet?"  
"Yeah, I told her on the way here." Dick informed, and Bruce nodded.

He got up gingerly from his chair, rolling his shoulders back under his wife beater and shaking out his legs from his plaid lounge pants. "Inform Tim, take him with you. I don't want you going alone."  
_Since when have you cared? _Dick thought, squinting at Bruce before saying, "Alright." Bruce was already walking towards the room with his suit, and when Dick followed him, the young man asked, "And what're you gonna do in the meantime?"

Bruce stopped, and looked over his shoulder at Dick.

"With Hush still out there? My job."

* * *

I stared into the mirror for some time. After I'd gone on my first assignment from my father, I'd thought I would see someone different when I looked at my own reflection. I was still in my black suit, spandex and fitting my form; the toned muscles in my arms and legs, the vein that pulsed in my neck, and my new mask resting on a shelf behind me, as if it were another person entirely watching me. My russet hair fell past my shoulders, thin bangs flipping over from where my hair parted. I'd gotten the color of my hair from my mother, being all I really knew of her. I had hazel eyes, almost a gray-blue crystal color with gold ringed around the pupil.

I didn't know what I had expected. Was I supposed to see remorse or…some other emotion in my eyes now? Was I supposed to feel guilty that I'd left three men with broken bones and screaming as I trapped them in traps of their fear's handiwork? My chains were coiled over my shoulder and across my torso, I stared at them. I noticed a streak of blood along one link, and I rose a gloved hand to it, swiping some of the blood. I held it up for my eyes to examine, rubbing it between my fingers.

"Nothing," I sighed. I was talking to myself, even though I knew it was futile.

"I regret nothing."

A knock sounded on my door, and a familiar voice called to me, a note of concern. "Annabeth? Can I come in?"  
"Door's open." I answered, wiping the blood onto the seam of my suit as the check-up room door opened and in came my father. He was still in his Scarecrow costume, only without his own iconic mask, holding it in his hand. I bit my lip. He looked wrong without his mask, and I didn't like it.

"What's the cause for alarm, Father?"

"Harley Quinn has been broken out," He said, narrowing his eyes at the floor.

I shook my head, asking him with a half-smile on my face. "And this concerns us how? We have the upper hand and the manpower."

"But I have a feeling that whoever rescued her will become problems for us in the future," Scarecrow admitted, and then came up to me, I initially wanted to cringe away from him but when he threw his mask over on my check-up chair to put his hands on my shoulders, I couldn't move. It was such a genuine, fatherly gesture that I wouldn't ruin the moment for the world. "I'm sending you to Bludhaven. An associate of ours will meet you there and assist you. I want you to bring me Harley Quinn."

"But Father," I began, a playful tone riddled through my voice. "I don't play well with others…but," I was serious now, doubt snaking its way into my mind. "Shouldn't you send someone a little more-

"No, Annabeth," My father interrupted, giving my shoulders a gentle shake, "There is no one else I trust to do this right. No one else I trust not to run when I turn them loose."

My eyes went wide, and as I stared at him, his spotlight-like gaze shone right through me like I wasn't even there. I found the doubt leaving, and placed with something else. Shock. Shock that he has placed so much stock in me that he would trust me over one of the more capable men at his command. We had done so much in so little time with just the two of us, I was never really aware of how much he relied on me. If he was the doctor that drove the patients insane, I was the nurse that had to go round them up for him.

"I have faith in you," He finished, "Do you understand?"

Mutely, I nodded. Scarecrow smiled, or at least the closest thing to a smile he could ever force upon his lips genuinely. He moved to the chair and put on his mask, pulling it every which way so that it fit perfectly onto his face. He raised the hood over the mask, reaching to a nearby counter for his clipboard and ballpoint pen. He stood by the chair, waving a hand from me to it like he was inviting me over.

Turning to me again, his command was warped by the mask, "Come. It is time for your check-up."

My blood ran absolutely cold, as if ice had replaced the blood in my veins and nothing else existed but me, him, and that cursed chair. My voice almost wouldn't leave my mouth, "B-but Father? I th-thought I had completed my psychological training."

"Ah, ah, ah," He scolded, waggling a finger in the air. "I never said you were finished. I merely said you had completed your training objectives. This is just for reinforcement, to enforce the behavior I have conditioned you with when I expose you to your worst fears. It's psychology, my daughter."

"Father, I thought-"

"Annabeth," He said sternly, the twisting of his voice made me flinch physically and cringe, fear of him quelling up in my throat like thirst. "Come _here_." Like a guilty dog being beckoned towards its master for punishment, I slowly stepped over to him with my head down and I refused to meet his eyes.

I was terrified; terrified as only he can make me feel right before he does it. Before he injects me with those syringes on the ends of his gloves. I hated the feeling before it happens. It was almost like a heartbeat before the heart dies. Where it isn't certain which heartbeat will be the last and no matter how many times it is experienced, you always guess wrong.

I was always so shaken when I climb up to sit on the chair, and the next time was harder than the last. Always and without question.

"Father, I have a question." My voice broke in two places with that sentence, and he glared at me, annoyed that I might be stalling.

"Proceed."

Tears, as unpredictably horrible they were, welled up in my eyes but I bore them proudly as they distorted his face when I asked.

"You said you had faith in me, but I'm not sure who you're referring to." I swallowed, my dry throat already starting. "Do you have faith in Annabeth Crane…or Phobia?"

He stared at me for several moments, and I knew I'd gotten to him with that question. I needed that answer, craved it. Scarecrow only raised a hand. I flinched, thinking he was going to hit me, but I was wrong yet again, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

I knew my answer when he sunk his syringes into my arm.


End file.
